


The Shadow (?) Over Innsmouth

by Thedupshadove



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Genre: Deep Ones, Me? Projecting again? It's more likely than you think, More of a sketch than a story, see if you can spot the Thuddingly Obvious Metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 00:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thedupshadove/pseuds/Thedupshadove
Summary: A semi-finished sketch of a re-interpretation of one of H.P. Lovecraft's more famous stories. I welcome any feedback or ideas--who knows, I may write this more properly someday.





	The Shadow (?) Over Innsmouth

For as long as H.P. Lovecraft’s work has been appreciated by members of all those minorities he made no secret of despising, people have been thinking of ways to twist and subvert his creations and premises so as to refute his bigoted beliefs. And I think I’ve got mine. I may be playing with fire here, but I’ve spent too much time and mental energy mulling over this not to want to know what others will think of it. 

I want you to picture a young man named Robert Olmstead, somewhere between his mid-20s and early 30s. He is a fairly average sort of man, perhaps leaning slightly towards the dreamy and artistic over the athletic. He might lean quite a bit harder if he hadn’t, for all his life, _loved_ the water with a fierce and burning passion. As a small child, he used to fuss when his mother tried to take him out of the bath. One of his earliest vivid memories is of when he was six years old and his family, who lived in Tennessee, took their first vacation to the ocean in his lifetime. The journey had been long, the hotel room had been too hot, he had slept poorly, and by the time he and his parents had piled back into the car for the final leg of the trip to this “beach” thing he had been bound and determined not to enjoy it. But then they arrived. And he stepped out of the car. And he _smelled_ something unlike anything he’d ever smelled before, and the smell seemed to call him forward, and he zipped ahead of his parents, heedless of his mother’s pleas to put on sunscreen, and he ran and he ran towards the smell and suddenly there it was, an endless endless expanse of beautiful, perfect water, the most amazing thing he’d ever seen, and he near to wept for joy and he _needed_ to be in it, and he ran so fast his legs slipped out from under him twice but he just got up and kept running and finally, _finally_ he was in it and it was the most beautiful feeling he’d ever felt in his life. It was six and a half hours before his parents could convince him to come out. And ever since then he has known that if he ever felt sad, or angry, or stressed, or lonely, or just a little empty inside, getting himself into water was what helped. Even a bath was something, although space to swim was better, and a natural body of water was also better. So a swimming pool and a creek were about the same, both better than a bath, and a good-sized pond or stream was better than that, a real lake or river better still. But nothing was ever quite as good as the ocean, when he could get to it.

He grows up, and becomes a writer, or a painter, or an architect, or something else that allows him to work from home and take most of his work with him if he moves. (That’s for plot reasons. You’ll see.) And one summer, he decides to take a month to do some traveling around the Northeastern coast. He’s on his way to what was going to be his second stop, when he’s hit with sudden car trouble. He nurses it to the nearest mechanic shop, in a little spit of a Massachusetts fishing town called Insmouth. The good news, they know what the problem is, and it should be a fairly easy and affordable fix. The bad news, they just ran out of a vital part they need to replace. They’ve already sent off to their supplier for a fresh shipment, but being as out in the boonies as they are, it’ll be two weeks until said shipment gets there. Well, he won’t get to travel as much as he wanted on this holiday, but at least it’s happening towards the beginning rather than towards the end, eh? So, which way to the local Inn? Er...there isn’t one. Well...where is he supposed to stay? Especially with his now-limited mobility on account of _his car just broke down_? Not to fret, there’s an old lady in town, one Hannah Marsh, who has a big empty house with plenty of bedrooms to spare. They’re sure she’ll let him stay with her, it’s just up that road, then you make a left at the little ice-cream shop…

He arrives, knocks, explains his situation, and she immediately hurries him inside with assurances that of course he can stay, not to worry, and he shouldn’t fret about his car either, she knows the boys who run the mechanic shop and they’re first-rate, just the best, really if only he hadn’t had the bad luck to arrive just as they ran out of that one part he’d be back on the road by now. By time she’s finished imparting all of this, he finds that he’s sitting at her kitchen table with a fried fish sandwich and a glass of milk in front of him. He brings up the subject of the fee for two weeks room and she is shocked, _shocked_, that he would even suggest such a thing; “What does it cost me to let you sleep in my house, that I should turn around and charge you?” “But I’ll need to shower. What about the increased water bill?” “I’m on a fixed rate, it doesn’t matter how much I use, look at it one way you’ll be helping me get my money’s worth.” “Well if you intend to go on feeding me you might at least let me compensate you for the extra food.” “Hmm. Well, there are a few little home projects I’ve been meaning to get to, but keep putting off. Help me out with those, and we’ll call it square.” 

So, after an afternoon spent settling into his room and helping her organize some boxes in the attic and a dinner of a lovely fish-and-potato casserole, Robert settles in for his first night in Insmouth. In the middle of the night, he hears some movement in the house, and then the front door open and close. The next morning, he asks whether there was some kind of commotion that he had been negligent in not getting up for. “Oh, I just like to take a walk of a night to clear my head, nothing at all to worry about.” 

And so, roughly, the next twelve days go. Robert helps Hannah with her little projects around the house, and when they’re not doing that, he often finds himself accompanying her in her daily goings-about. He stares longingly at the ocean once or twice, but it seems that he really likes this brisk little friendly yet bitingly witty old woman, and just keeps following her around. But as the days pass, the strangest feeling keeps creeping up on him, getting stronger each time it does. He’ll be walking through town, or get drawn into a chat with the greengrocer, stand by and listen while Hannah haggles over the price of a pound of fish, and all the while he’s noticing little differences, little things that the people in this town do that he’s never seen anywhere else, little differences in culture and an unfamiliar tilt to the architecture and what sound like religious oaths that he doesn’t recognize, but it feels...right. Feels good. Feels natural. Feels like home. Which is odd, because he’s certain he’s never been here before, and he certainly didn’t grow up in a town like this (Tennessee, remember?), so why does it seem that with every second he spends in this town, the _rightness_ just keeps growing?

On the fourth day he wakes up to find a note from Hannah saying that she’ll be away most of the day, and so of course he shouldn’t be expected to do any of the projects on his own. First, he thinks he’ll take the opportunity to do some swimming, but as he’s walking down the shore he’s stopped by a local who hastily explains that unfortunately the ocean along the town can’t be swum in because...it will scare away the fishes. Yes, that’s it, so sorry to disappoint you, but with fishing being so vital to the local economy you can imagine how important it is to keep the fishes in the water, right? Right? Good, good. 

Well, with that stymied, Robert gets another idea; Hannah’s been such a lovely hostess, and sure he’s been helping her around the house, but he’d like to do something else to show his appreciation. Why doesn’t he make dinner tonight? So he spends the day going around to the various little markets, picking up all the ingredients he’ll need (all the while shadowed by that same inexplicable yet undeniable feeling of rightness and belonging), then takes it all back to Hannah’s house and starts cooking. As he chops and measures and stirs and tastes, he finds himself half-singing half-humming an old song he remembers his grandfather used to sing. And at 6:30 in the evening, Hannah comes home to a pot of fish stew on the table. As she smells the product and takes her first bite, one could almost suspect that a startle passes over her, but there’s nary a tremor in her voice when she asks him where he got the recipe from. “Oh, it’s an old family one.” he replies. “Goes at least as far back as my mother’s father’s mother, if I remember correctly.” “Oh indeed? Well, it’s quite lovely.”

On the evening before the sixth day, Hannah tells Robert that she’ll be gone tomorrow until probably about 1:30-2:00 in the afternoon; she’s going to a religious service. Some inner drive Robert can’t explain compels him to ask if he can come along. Hannah hesitates, then says yes, but warns him that things might look strange, and cautions him against hasty judgment. The next morning he wakes up on the early side, dresses in the best outfit he brought with him, and follows her to a building near the center of town that looks even more unusual than most of the buildings. Inside, it seems that virtually the whole of the town has gathered. They take their seats (not really any sort of pew setup, just a whole bunch of chairs willy-nilly around the large main room) and at first Robert starts to maybe regret tagging along to the services of what appears to be a completely unfamiliar faith. It’s mostly a lot of singing and chanting in a language he doesn’t recognize, but there is a little talking in English too, and from what he can gather there’s a god of some kind called Dagon who, if he’s anywhere in particular, is probably at the bottom of the ocean, and something about a pact, and remembering the balance between lives. As said, at first it’s awkward for him, being the only person in the room who doesn’t understand what’s going on, but as the service continues that _right_ feeling comes on him again, and he starts to find the atmosphere comforting, even if he isn’t sure of most of what’s being said. 

After the service itself there’s a kind of reception/town gathering/informal lunch, and this is where that feeling really kicks into high gear. The food is hitting something in his soul that he hadn’t known he had, there’s strange yet hauntingly familiar music playing in one corner of the room, people are dancing, people are talking, people are laughing, and he nearly falls to his knees, buffeted by waves of _right_ and _yes_ and _HomeHomeHome_ and _You belong here, Robert Olmstead_. But, he thinks, how can he feel that he belongs here? He knows he’s never been here, so much of this is new to him, yet it calls out to his soul. He wants, he wants...but how dare he, he suddenly realizes. Who is he, to waltz in here and start trying to insert himself? Trying to fit in, trying to be a part of this? No, no, this isn’t right. He has to stop this before he becomes no better than a common thief. And in a panic he runs out of the room and out of the building and then he does fall to his knees, on the ground outside, gasping for breath and trying desperately to calm his spinning head. 

Hannah, who had noticed him starting to look a bit uncomfortable and certainly noticed him rush out, follows him outside and asks, a little sadly, if he’s alright. Oh yes, he responds, yes he’s perfectly fine, he just needed some air, that’s all. So nothing he heard...disturbed him, she asks? What? Oh no, no, not at all! He replies hastily. No, he’s just...not good with crowds sometimes. Please, she shouldn’t let him keep her. She looks a little dubious, but nods and goes back inside, leaving him sitting on the ground, hugging his knees to his chest and wishing he could go swimming. Maybe that would settle his troubled soul. 

That night, not only does he hear the usual sounds of Hannah leaving the house, he’d swear he hears the sound of some large group, coming from the direction of the sea.

The next few days are a little awkward. On the surface, nothing’s changed—helping Hannah around the house and tagging along with her if she has to go somewhere, chatting all the while, but now the talk seems the littlest bit strained, and he keeps catching her stealing sad, slightly worried glances at him, and of course there’s the fact that now he’s trying to actively hold himself back from feeling too much at home. But by the ninth day, things have settled back down a little (partially because, if he’s being honest, his attempts to not feel comfortable here weren’t working very well, and he’s started slacking off on them.)

But with that slacking off on trying to hold back comes the return of those feelings of guilt for how happy he is being here. And as the happiness builds, so does the guilt, and he spends most of his time wrestling back and forth in his head, scolding himself for his presumptuousness, pleading with his superego to be allowed to just enjoy it while he can, shaking his head in disgust at his interest, which is _obviously_ just a result of encountering something new and exotic, and couldn’t possibly be justified...right? Right, he mustn’t go on like this, after all no one likes a grabby tourist. He doesn’t _really_ belong here (but what if he could…) All this passive enjoyment is very wrong of him (but it feels so right…) Anyway, in just a few more days he’ll be leaving (he doesn’t _want_ to…) and then this foolishness will subside (but what if…) _No!_

This mental battle stresses him so much that, on the twelfth night, he can’t even get to sleep, and so decides to take a walk along the shore in the hope of clearing his head. As he comes down to the beach he once again begins to hear the sounds of a crowd. He worries that going down to join whatever’s happening would be counter-intuitive to his goal of not inserting himself into this place, but he can’t quite dismiss his curiosity, so he slowly inches closer until he finds a bush he can hide behind (and yes, he does feel a little silly) and peek out around to see what’s going on...and it floors him. 

Perhaps it shouldn’t. It’s just a large group of people, swimming and frolicking in the water and hanging out on the beach. But the thing about these people is...they’re Fish People. Bipedal, but with big eyes and scaly bodies and fins coming off, come on, we’ve all seen movies. And maybe it should be terrifying, but as I said, they’re not doing anything...menacing or evil. They’re just hanging out. But as he looks closer at them...he doesn’t quite know how, but he can recognize some of them. There, that’s the greengrocer. And he thinks that one is one of the men who own the mechanic shop. And that one over there...that’s Hannah. Oh good grief, _this_ is where she’s been going every night! And this must be the real reason why they didn’t want him swimming. And that commotion he heard on the night of the religious service—there had been something about balancing lives, after all. That must have been the other half of the service. Realizing this all at once, he’s unable to stifle a yelp of startled understanding, and then he passes out. 

The next morning, he wakes up back in his bed in Hannah’s house. He shakes his head—was last night a dream?—but when he looks down at himself he sees that he’s covered in the scratches that must have come from fainting into a bush. He dresses slowly, cautiously makes his way downstairs, and finds Hannah in the kitchen standing over the stove. “So”, she asks tensely, “Did you sleep well?” “I don’t know”, he responds after a pause, “Did I?”

She turns around to face him. “Robert”, she asks, “have we hurt you? Have we imprisoned you? Have we done anything to make you fear us, or wish us harm?” 

“No”, he replies, confused, “certainly not.”

“Then...can I have your word that after you leave here, you won’t tell a soul what I’m about to tell you?”

“...Alright.”

And so the truth, or at least a sketch of the truth, comes out. Long, long, _long_ ago, so long ago that a lot of the specific details are lost to history, an ancient civilization (no one seems to remember exactly where it was, although one supposes that it must have been coastal) started interbreeding with an aquatic race called the Deep Ones, as well as adopting their religion of worshiping the sea god Dagon. This went on long enough for the hybrids to become a race unto themselves. They can shape-shift between more human and more aquatic forms but must spend _at least_ one hour per day in water (and generally prefer much more), and they are quite long-lived, with an average lifespan of 500 years. And then, some period of time after the hybrid race stabilized...something happened. We’re not sure what it was. We think it involved a neighboring tribe getting worried that these strange fish people were coming to kill them all. Or maybe it was just a land dispute. One of those. But anyway, the only way for the hybrid race to survive was to flee, cutting themselves off from their Deep One brothers and scattering to the four winds. Groups of them traveled here, there, everywhere, staying together in communities when they could, and even occasionally finding new communities of Deep Ones, though not very often. They’ve tried to keep their culture alive, as well as keeping _themselves_ alive, but the general practice now is to keep their true natures secret from “normal” humans, after what happened way back when. A few times, someone or a small group of someones has tried revealing the secret, sick of hiding and convinced that peaceful coexistence should be possible, but as a rule that...hasn’t ended well. And around the turn of the 20th century, one group came to Massachusetts, and founded Insmouth. So can he see why they didn’t want him finding out—and why she still doesn’t want him telling anyone? Yes, he can, and she has his word that he won’t.

But the next day and a half is, if anything, more awkward still. Because he had thought that finding out this outlandish truth might make his wonderful, impossible at-home feeling diminish, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t at all. And now he only feels more guilty about it—oh, he feels _kinship_ with these people? He dared to think he might have a place here? Among these people who have had nothing but bullshit thrown at them for thousands of years, who have to keep themselves secret and hidden away, and he wants to, what, join up? Because he likes the food? Robert Jonathan Olmstead, you are a heartless, greedy _moron_. 

And then, just after noon on the fourteenth day, one of the mechanics stops by to tell him that his car is ready. And he has no choice but to thank him, and pay, and take his car back, and pack up his things, and thank Hannah for being such a lovely hostess (“Nonsense, nonsense, thank _you_ for being such a help.”) and get behind the wheel, and, pushing down the ache in his heart with all his might, drive away from Insmouth. He finds he just isn’t in the vacation mood anymore, opting to just go straight home.

For the next three months, he tries to settle back into life. He tries not to think about Insmouth, and sometimes succeeds for as much as half an hour at a time (and no, sleep is no respite. Not a single night goes by that he doesn’t dream he’s back there.) But he finds himself incorporating elements of what he saw in Insmouth into his own work, and has to hastily remove it. And he finds life increasingly...empty, which drives him into whatever water he can get to more and more often. And his eyes are starting to get dry more easily.

And then a local newspaper challenges its readers to trace their family history and find something interesting to write about, and what the hey, he could use a distraction. So he digs out all the family records he can find. It’s mostly pretty boring stuff, with everybody concentrated in the Chattanooga area for several generations back, except for his mother’s paternal grandfather. Who married a girl who seemed to bring none of her relatives with her into the family, but said she came from a small fishing town in Massachusetts. One Hannah Marsh.

Head spinning, he piles into his car first chance he can get and drives straight back to Insmouth, barely stopping until he’s right outside Hannah’s house, and practically racing up her front step to breathlessly knock on her door. She seems pleased to see him, but surprised, had he forgotten something when he left and only just noticed it now?

“No, I...look, can I come in?”

“Alright.”

And so they sit down on the couch in her front parlor.

“Hannah, I...” even if there was a tactful way to say this, he’s too keyed-up to find it, “I’m your great-grandson.”

“Yes.”

“So you knew? The whole time I was with you?”

“No. Only after you made my soup.”

“And you didn’t _tell_ me?”

“At first, explaining how would have meant giving up The Secret. And by time I had to do that anyway, I...was pretty sure you wouldn’t have been happy to hear it.”

“...What?”

“Well as the days went by you started to seem so nervous whenever we were around town. And you had to rush out of the temple because you just couldn’t stand it. So I figured we’d both be better off if I didn’t burden you with the knowledge that you were connected to the freaks on the shore, no?” She’s trying not to sound to hurt, and not succeeding particularly well.

“Is...is that what you thought? Yes, I can see how it must have been. But it wasn’t.” And out it all comes as he pours into her lap the story of his tangled emotions all those two weeks, of the stirring sense of home that he had fought to push down, of how it seemed that the very air of this place had called back memories of his grandfather that he’d buried for so long; of songs and stories and little snippets that seemed to come from nowhere but now it makes sense! They came from here! And when he’s done explaining it all, and watching the strangest set of expressions cross Hannah’s face, he musters his courage and asks the questions that really drove him here. His work is portable. He doesn’t really have that many roots where he lives currently. So could he...could he come back? Move up here and try to...to be a Deep One properly? To learn how it all goes and really do it?

Hannah closes her eyes and turns her head away from him. “No.”

His heart sinks. It feels like an ice-cube has been dropped down his spine. But...he’s come too far, dangit! He _has_ to press on. To at least try to understand “Why not?”

“Robert, do you know why I married your great-grandfather? Because I was sick of it. Not of these people, nor even really of this place, but of being _stuck_ in this place. Of having to huddle here because the wide world won’t accept us. And though I loved your great-grandfather—no, don’t look at me like that, I did! But keeping this secret from him, artificially aging myself until, as I always knew, deep down, that I would have to, I faked my death and came back here...it was insane. And the lengths we have to go to in order to have any interaction with the outside world. The secrecy, the hiding of something so fundamental to who we are...you don’t want to be a part of this, Robert.”

_But I_ do! He thinks, but since that track has already failed, he instead tries “I’m not sure I have a choice. Ever since I left here, I think I’ve been...changing. I’m starting to need water more and more often. A couple of times it’s almost seemed like I could breathe underwater. So can I come back?”

“No. What you’re talking about happens sometimes. I’m not the first to mix with humans, not by a long shot. The results of such unions certainly have the potential to become full Deep One hybrids, but they also have every opportunity not to. What you need to do is start spending a _lot_ less time in water, especially submerged. Take showers instead of baths. Avoid lakes and rivers. Breathe no salten air. The burgeoning transformation will subside, in time.”

_I don’t_ want _it to!_ He thinks desperately, and he can’t stop the escaping “But...”

Hannah sighs, “Go home, Robert.”

_“I’m trying.”_

Again she closes her eyes, sucks in a breath, and turns away, but this time she says, very quietly, “Ask me again.”

“_Can_ I come back?”

Hannah opens her eyes, and they’re shining. A smile breaks over her face. “Yes,” she says softly, “Yes, yes, yes.” 

“R...really? Just like that? What changed your mind?”

“Nothing. I had to try to talk you out of it. I’m sorry. We can talk about it.” She’s shaking with joy and, he realizes, so is he. “But I’m so glad you’re doing this. And I’ll be there with you, every step of the way.”

He can’t help it. He throws his arms around her, and they stay that way for some time, crying a little and hugging each other.


End file.
